Scarred
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: The wounds we get, physically and mentally, that just don't heal quite right. Well, unless a doctor can come and fix it for you. Johnlock. John/Mary. Sherlock/Mary/John polyamory. What I felt the need to write after watching The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three. Obviously spoilers through both.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**This is what I wanted to write in the description, but it was too long: The wounds we get, physically and mentally, that just don't heal quite right. Well, unless a doctor can come and fix it for you. Johnlock. John/Mary. Sherlock/Mary/John polyamory. What I felt the need to write after watching The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three because I had too many painful feelings about our dear detective and cute feelings for John and Mary and too much Johnlock and TOO MUCH FEELS. Plus, I dig polyamory and have never written anything pertaining it, so here you go. Spoilers through S3:E2. **

**T for language and itsy bitsy sexual references. **

* * *

_**~~~~SHERLOCK~~~~**_

**Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.**

How could he say that? About me? _Me_? Ignorant? I'm ignorant? He's kidding himself.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

**No. ****_Friends_**** protect people.**

Right. Friends protect people. I've never needed a friend to protect me in my life. John, always so simple. Why do I bother with him anyhow? One of the few mysteries I might never solve.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

The moment I said it I thought of John. He'd have rolled his eyes had he heard me say it. He'd be convinced I was wrong. But here's the proof. Love will never do anything for me. I must stay away from it for the rest of my life if I want to remain who I am. Sherlock Holmes and love will never mix.

_I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone._

**And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend.**

He loved that friend word. Pulled it all the time. I never liked it much. Too sentimental. Companion made more sense to me. That's why I told him I didn't have friends. Though, as it turns out, maybe friend was the right word. Grudgingly.

**There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?**

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

There's nothing more to add to this. Heroes are the personification of romanticism in the heart of the weak and even if there were such thing, I'd never allow myself to be the creation of the heart of average people. The last place I belong is in a heart.

* * *

**_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._**

That's what I keep running over and over and over in my head.

Well, I think about many things from back then. Just to remember what it had been like. Just to feel alive.

But those words in particular skitter though my mind regularly. It's the words that made so much sense to me back then, so long ago.

And now they're the words of a stranger. The words of a desperate, broken man who longed more than anything to be whole. Longed it so much that he forced himself to believe that he was whole. That even if he _weren't_, he didn't want to be.

**_Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._**

These are the other words I think about. They'd been so wrong back then.

But no. They were never wrong. I'd just never have admitted it, not even to myself.

But now I know. I thought I was clever, I thought I understood the world for everything that it was and there was nothing left to learn.

How very, very wrong I had been.

Yes, I admit it, I was wrong. I admit it whole-heartedly because there was so much I never understood.

Dying showed me the truth.

I died as John watched. The scheme was elaborate and it went exactly to plan, even if I hadn't expected Moriarty to kill himself. No matter. Maybe it was better that way.

John saw it all. It was all just theatrics. Anyone can be hired to do anything for a price, even fake a death and in turn break a heart.

John ran over, and by then it was really me on the pavement. I heard him. I heard his broken voice. Sad wasn't the right word, not at all. It was dead.

_I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please._

_No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please._

_Please, let me just ..._

_Nggh, Jesus, no._

_God, no._

**_He's my friend. Please. _**

That's what I heard. He'd said it before, that word he loved so much, but it rang in my ears, mingling with the fake blood, making me dizzy without even moving.

I didn't realise at that moment why it had that effect on me. I thought it might be adrenaline. My body in shock from the stunt I'd pulled. Anything but what it really was.

Because in the back of my mind, I realised that the word 'friend' meant more than I'd ever supposed. And I realised that I was so fortunate to have John say those words, and mean me when he said them. And I realised that friends don't do this to one another. They don't break each other.

But that's what I did.

I left him alone.

Three years ago, I never would have cared about leaving someone alone.

But then I was alone.

**_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. _**

Bloody idiot. That's what I am.

That's, by far, the most hideously incorrect statement I ever had the gall to mutter.

See, I'd spent most of my life on my own. There was Mycroft, and there were my parents, but Mycroft was just a reminder that even though I am better than most, I still fail to be the best, and my parents were no different than all the other people I strive to be better than in the first place. I liked to pretend they weren't there much of the time. I kept myself in a bubble where it was only me. I liked it there.

I thought alone protected me because I didn't know what alone was. I knew what it was to be on my own. To be literally the only person in the room, the only person in my life.

But to be alone—to be _lonely_—that was a different thing entirely. You see, in order to feel lonely, you must first feel friendship. You can't feel a loss of company without knowing what it's like to have company at all.

I found John Watson.

Learning to care for him was enough to teach me to care about others too. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Molly.

I don't think I really knew, or wanted to see, that I had learned to care for them, but then I was on top of Barts and Moriarty was threatening their lives—all but Molly, the girl who mattered more than either of us ever could have imagined—and I knew right there the great mistake I had made by learning to love. I _couldn't_ let them die.

I'd known that he would do something of the sort. It was the only logical way he could have forced me to jump. You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint… but if you have the one they love at gunpoint? Elementary.

So I'd known. But it wasn't real until he said it.

_I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself._

More people who were right when I'd believed them—no, _wanted _them—to be wrong, but who had been proven correct in the end.

I, the highest power I had ever known, was worth more than the life of three ordinary people, right?

No. That didn't cross my mind for even a second.

My mind had flat-lined for a moment, and then pounded to life, screeching: No. They won't die. Not on my watch.

Especially not John.

My John.

God, if he had _died_…

But he didn't. I saved him by dying that day. He felt for my pulse, more magic tricks made it impossible to feel, he fell to the ground and the force of it reverberated through the pavement, through my whole body, shuddering in my heart, whispering disquieting words to my soul.

_You don't know what you've done. You don't understand, you _moron_, what you're doing_.

I kept with the plan. John was fooled. Everyone was. I was dead, for all they knew, and I had work to do. A criminal empire to dismantle. Turns out, that's not actually very simple. Somehow I thought it'd take me a few months. It took two years instead.

Alone for two years? What did it matter after decades of being alone?

But I'd never felt the warmth of another person in my life. I'd never known the sensation of having someone truly care about me. In the time I knew John, I knew friendship not in the cold, calculating manner I knew other human interactions, like someone might read in a textbook. I knew what friendship was intimately. I'd been whipped into a life where I didn't have to question if I had someone to rely on, if I had just one person that would never stop caring about me. I took it all for granted, counted it all for naught, and then it was just gone, whipped away as quickly as it had come, and I had never known a pain like that. Being beat within an inch of my life on three separate occasions—knowing that the last time my own brother watched and smiled because he'd been frustrated at how much _legwork_ I required—could never hurt as much as knowing, really knowing, how it felt to be alone.

The world was hollow. My heart was hollow. There was the gaping, bleeding, festering hole where there used to be love and now there was nothing but cold, hard, emptiness that burned around the edges, smouldering out farther with each day until one day the freezing flame would consume me. Maybe I could actually die from heartache. No matter. Maybe it was better that way.

Then at least maybe I wouldn't have to feel this way anymore.

Then Mycroft told me I was returning to Baker Street and I couldn't help but smile through the pain.

My John.

He'd be so pleased to see me.

He'd tell me that things had been so dull without me around.

He was lonely too, of course. He was hurting as well. He needed me the way I needed him.

And then I met Mary.

And then I took a moment to look, really _look_, and I saw all that she was and I knew. I knew John had found the one. The one that knew what he needed and would provide it. The one that was there when I was gone.

I'd lost my chance.

Being lonely out in the world, traversing through the woods, hiding in alleys, sleeping in the cold and remembering all the things I no longer had, that was bad enough.

But now I was here again. John was here again. And it was good. It was what I wanted. I wasn't letting him go again, that was for sure.

But still, I was utterly alone. He'd found Mary. Even Molly had found someone. But I was just the solitary satellite roving around all the people that used to think the world of me, the ones that now just thought I was another person in their life, one they would spare time for when they could.

While I was burning, just like Moriarty had promised, John was healing. He was finding Mary and falling in love and yes, I'd hurt him, and I couldn't apologise enough times for that, but he was fine now. He was probably happier now that he had someone else to eclipse me. 221B was empty. I was empty.

Well, not always.

* * *

John was talking to me again, thankfully. I'd been rather frightened he would never speak to me again after what I'd done to him. I really was lucky that he had it in him to forgive me for the crime I hadn't even understood until two years later.

But I lived on my own now and thus didn't think much about propriety. I preferred to walk around in a sheet much of the time. It was comfortable; it made clothes one less thing to think about.

And hey, if I ever got called to Buckingham Palace again, showing up in a sheet would surely be even funnier the second time.

I'd been playing violin, which meant I had the sheet tied around my waist, as I couldn't hold it up with the instrument in my hand. I was only just starting to compose the piece I'd be playing at the wedding.

Wedding. Oh, I hated thinking about it. I tried not to. My brother was the voice of reason in my mind: _You're just composing, Sherlock. Keep it together, will you? You're becoming a constant wreck. What did I tell you about sentiment, little brother?_

"Oh, hell," John said, and I turned quickly, expecting to see him looking at me reproachfully for being mostly naked, for him to look disgusted… but no. That wasn't his face. In fact, I wasn't sure _what_ it was at first.

"Sherlock," John said, hardly hiding some kind of panic, "What the hell happened to your back?"

Oh. _That_. The Serbian's whip had left more than a few nasty little gashes and it hadn't been long enough for them to heal. They hurt, but I was in enough control of my body to ignore it.

I put my violin down, untying my sheet in order to wrap it around my back as well. Now that he'd called attention to them, they protested when the fabric rubbed against them. "Nothing, John. Did you need something?"

"Sherlock, tell me what happened," he demanded, striding across the room.

"Nothing happened."

"Shut the hell up and tell me what happened."

"I can't well both shut up _and_ tell you—"

"You know what I meant, you tit! Now tell me!"

"Tit. That's a nice one."

"Sherlock—" he started warningly.

"It was just some terrorist organisation, John. I was dealing with the things Moriarty left behind and they caught me in the act of collapsing them. Of course they beat me for it, John."

He looked up at me with something harshly protective in his eyes and it warmed my heart in a way that made me scowl inwardly.

_He's not yours anymore_, Mycroft taunted. _Oh, well, not that he ever was, was he?_

"Shut up," I muttered to him. He had no right butting into a conversation between John and I.

"What, did you expect me not to be upset?" asked John, seeming to think the 'shut up' had been a response to the look on his face.

"I didn't expect you to see it at all," I replied quietly.

"Well now I did. Let me look."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a doctor, you moron. Now let me look."

"Only if you promise to call me a _tit_ again," I said dryly.

"Shut up," he muttered, spinning me around himself and carefully folding the sheet down. I rearranged it so it was tied around my waist again.

His nimble hands were on my back, looking at the wounds, and without him being able to see I felt safe shutting my eyes and savouring the feel of him. Oh, yes, that's what I needed. A hit of that made cocaine pale in comparison. I shuddered in pleasure, but he thought it was pain.

"Sorry," he said quickly, moving his hands away.

"Don't—" I said, my voice desperate before I could contain it and continue, "It'd fine. Keep going."

"I don't want to hur—"

"Keep. Going."

He silently obliged, and it was far too short a time before he moved away again. "They're not infected. They could use stitches, honestly, but I doubt you'll allow me to do that."

"You're correct there," I said, turning around.

John's eyes were sad. Far too sad. Before I allowed myself to do it, I rested a hand on his face. He blinked up at me.

"Thank you for your concern, John," I said to him.

"You don't have—have to thank me," he replied, and I probably imagined the hitch of his breath, the pupil dilation. See? Infatuation made me err.

I let my hand drop. "I just… uh… I just was supposed to ask you if you'd come over later. To plan, you know."

"Yes, of course," I replied.

He nodded. "Er, good. Well, got some shopping to do. I'll see you."

And he was gone. And I was alone again.

* * *

When John was at Baker Street again, I pretended things were the same as before, because it was my only time of solace from my near-constant pain. Losing the man I had never had. Not understanding how I really felt until it was too late.

John could tell I was different, I knew he could. It was little things, really. I thought twice before I spoke more often—like when Molly introduced us to Tom and I managed to keep my mouth shut. I allowed myself to be more open with the people I never had been, because I'd not taken the chance when I had it before, and I wasn't going to make that mistake twice. But he knew, and sometimes he and I would share a glance, and he'd be asking me silently to tell him what was wrong.

It was all wrong.

Because I _wanted_ John. Not just as a friend, I knew that now. But Mary was still the one. Still the one who would be able to give him what he needed. Still the one that had healed him when I had broken him in the first place. And Mary deserved him. She was a wonderful woman—and me saying that is rare, to say the least. So I half wanted to steal him away, but also half knew that I could never deserve him the way she did.

Every time he left, or they both left, the dull pain would come back worse than ever. And get sharper. And burn worse. And there was black mould inside my skin and damn it, I was never supposed to be this human.

_Pain is turning you into a poet, Sherlock. _Mycroft never stopped chiding me, both in my head and in actuality.

I didn't think it could get worse until the wedding happened. After Mary and John's dance, after I realized they were going to have a baby. I was happy. Happier than I actually ever could have figured I would be. They would be wonderful parents.

And I had lost John for good.

I knew that didn't matter. I knew John's happiness was what was important. And Mary's, and the baby's, for that matter.

_Oh, you care about _her_ too now? _And_ the unborn baby? How do you fit all these feelings in one rail thin body? _taunted Mycroft internally.

I'd stood there alone, no one to dance with, unwilling to admit I would ever _want_ to dance, and then I left to lick my wounds so I could be okay again the next time I saw John.

I had to be okay. For him.

* * *

_**~~~~JOHN~~~~**_

Mary had told me I was in love with Sherlock very early on. She was a nice woman, sure, but she also had a tendency to be indelicate at times, so she'd really surprised me when she'd said it.

We were at his grave, of all places.

"So, do you actually know that you loved him, or do you pretend you didn't?"

"What?" I asked her incredulously.

"It's alright. I don't mind or anything. It's just that you totally were in love with him and I thought you should know. Since you seem the type to make yourself dense on purpose so you don't have to see it."

I would have argued, but being here in front of his headstone made me vulnerable. And I couldn't lie when his name was right there, glaring up at me and demanding me to just admit it already.

"What's it matter now?" I snapped.

She took my hand. "What, you don't believe that he might come back to you anymore? You said in the beginning to half feel like he might just pop up and tell you it was all a joke."

"I… I don't know," I muttered, because I didn't want to say how much I wanted that to be true.

"Well, let me tell you this. If he ever did come back magically—"

"Mary…"

"No, let me say this, John, it's important. If he ever comes back, you have to be with him."

I looked over to her. "What?"

"I know that you love me. And I love you too. But you and him… I didn't even know him and I know you were something special. If he appeared, and you wanted to be with him, I wouldn't be upset. I wouldn't stop you. I'd be happy that you found him again. Really, I would. Just know that."

God, Mary was wonderful. The fact that she'd say that… I didn't let myself think on it too much though. Getting my hopes up just to get crushed wasn't the best idea.

* * *

And then Sherlock came back. And I tried to kill him three times in one night only because how the hell could he leave me alone like that? I was furious because it took him dying to knew I'd fallen the fuck in love with him and he'd _never even been dead._ Now I had Mary and it was too damn late.

I still remembered what she'd said. She didn't bring it up. She expressed that she liked Sherlock—a miracle in itself—but she'd never said, "So, John, are you going to leave me for him now?"

She let me propose. And I wanted to. Mary was good for me. I loved her. I wanted to be with her. And if sometimes I couldn't help myself staring at Sherlock, so what? I could ignore that.

I think it was when Sherlock said that Mary was pregnant that I realized that there was no turning back now, even if I wasn't sure. Now there was a child to look after. Sherlock and I shared one look, one single glance that told me that if I had left Mary and went to him, he would have taken me. He would have let me have him. Mary would have let me have him too. But now that was gone.

It didn't matter. Mary really was amazing. I really was utterly in love with her.

I was just in love with him too.

Yeah, no way that could go wrong.

* * *

"John, why do I have to tell you everything?"

I looked over to her. She was reading a book in the bed next to me. "What? Tell me what?"

"That Sherlock's totally in love with you."

I blinked at her. "Um, Mary," I said carefully. "I don't know if you remember this, but we're married now."

"Yes. I actually do remember that, believe it or not."

"So why _exactly_ are you bringing that up?"

"Because I told you that you could have him and you didn't do it. Why not?"

"Because I love you."

"Yes, and you love him too."

I bit my lip and she looked over to me. Why the hell was she smiling? I think I just had a thing for strange people who never reacted the way they were supposed to emotionally.

"You know I like him. I told you that."

"Yes…"

"So go to him already."

I was so lost. Hopefully she wasn't on drugs, because that wouldn't be great for the baby.

"You aren't making any sense."

"John, I love you, and I knew the second he showed up at the restaurant that you'd never just be mine anymore. And I like him." I still was just staring at her, utterly confused. "I knew from the start that I'd have to share you," she prompted, trying to make me understand.

"You're saying… you're saying that… I should be… with both of you?"

"Why not? Things with him and things with me aren't really the same, are they? I have faith that you can have him and it won't change things between you and I."

"Why… why would you do that?"

"Because I love you and I want you to be happy. I want to give you everything you need, but I can't. Sherlock has half your heart and I have half."

"And you're okay with that?" I asked, stunned.

"Strangely enough, yeah," she said, smiling again. "You know, he has my heart too. I might not quite be in love with him, but I care about him a lot. And hey, I'd go for ménage."

"Mary!" I said, laughing, pretending I didn't like the sound of the idea.

"Hey, just putting it out there. If you find out he's into sex at all, mention the possibility of a thressome. I think it could be pretty sexy."

I was still laughing because this was unbelievable. Who could actually be okay with something like this? This wasn't what relationships were! Two people, that's it.

But then again… I never did anything in the ordinary way. In fact, that's one thing me, Mary, and Sherlock all had in common. Normal wasn't really our cup of tea.

"You're serious?" I finally asked.

"Yes," she said. "For both your sakes, go see him."

"You mean… you mean _now_?"

"No, wait for that sad puppy look of his to get worse. Yes, of course now, love."

"I… Mary… this is insane."

"I agree. We're all insane. We can make a club."

I grinned at her. "You're really sure? That this is okay? I mean—"

"John, if you don't go get him into bed right this instant, I'll kick you out myself."

I was quiet for a long moment, staring at her.

"But you better give me a play by play," she teased.

"I'll fucking tape it if you like that sort of thing."

She grinned. "Don't suggest _that_. I just might tell you to do it."

"Mary… thank you."

"Don't mention it. Now get outta here."

* * *

Once Mary wasn't beside me in bed, my mind went frantic as I realised that this was happening. I could hold Sherlock in my arms and tell him…

Oh god. What the hell was I doing? This was _Sherlock_! Sure, he was different than before the Fall, and there was something between us that neither of us could properly ignore, but he didn't feel the way other people did. I couldn't just barge in and kiss him! He'd probably shut down and have a panic attack and it'd be like Baskerville all over again. Because that's what Sherlock did when he realised he was human. He freaked the fuck out.

But I was already at the flat, and all of my usual reservations were being drowned out by the blood pumping excitedly through my veins, pumping and screaming Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

I bounded the steps two at a time. I didn't care that it was late. I hoped to hell Mrs Hudson was a heavy sleeper. Well, after living below Sherlock for long enough, you probably had to learn to be.

I barreled in the door and Sherlock was already up, since he'd obviously heard me running upstairs.

And you know what I said about how I couldn't just barge in and kiss him?

Well…

"John, what is it?"

I rushed across the room to where he was standing and yanked his face down to mine, kissing him hard. I only let it last a moment, because then I realised what I'd done. I backed away. Sherlock's eyes were wide. See, he was going to go catatonic.

"I… Uh—"

And then Sherlock kissed me back. His arms winding around me, so I let my fingers tangle in his hair. Ah, he tasted good. Not like anything in particular, just Sherlock.

"Wait," he said quickly. "But Mary—"

"Mary said it was okay."

"Okay?"

"She said that I need both of you to be happy and she's okay with that."

He blinked for a moment, but then smirked. "What?" I asked.

"I knew it. That she would be the one to figure out what you needed and how to give it to you."

I didn't really know what he meant. I didn't really care.

"I don't think I realised," I told him, "That you were hurting too when you were gone."

He barked out a little chuckle. "Of course I was."

"And I don't just mean those scars on your back," I added, letting my hands graze the back of his dressing gown—a little disappointed that he wasn't in a sheet again.

"No, I'm afraid I found myself hurt emotionally as well," he sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"What, you're apologising for my leaving? You're ridiculous, John."

"Sherlock, I love you, you bastard," I told him.

He actually grinned down at me—without looking creepy too. "I love you too."

"You said that much easier than I thought you would," John said.

"Well, after being lonely as long as I was, you figure out how to express your feelings a bit better."

I smiled up at him. "How sweet. Now shut and kiss me."

He rolled his eyes, but at least he did it.

I was a little confused as to how this was going to work. You know, the three of us. Or four, in eight or so months. But it didn't matter to me right at that moment. I needed Sherlock, but I needed Mary too. And somehow, I was managing to get both. I couldn't ask for more.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. I know it's a little different than what I usually go for. And I could probably add more. But I literally just sat down and wrote for an hour just to get out all my feels about this season so far. This is more a therapeutic session for me than it is a story for you! Lol, no really, thanks for reading. Please review!**

**Oh. And this was gonna be a one-shot, and was marked as complete and everything, but then everyone said I should continue it so I decided that I will. So yup. **


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